


Abandonment

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [3]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 13:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12300156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Enter Bim Trimmer, stage left.





	Abandonment

“Who are you, and why do you have _my_ face?” 

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are,” Dark growled, flinging the door open, “but you’d better get inside.” With a sweep of his arm, he ushered Bim into the house. The door banged behind him, a cold burst of December air.   


Bim looked around, nervous, as Dark locked the door behind them. The house was tiny and overflowing with boxes, as if whoever lived here had just moved in. There was barely room enough in the entrance hall for both him and Dark. 

Dark straightened up, muttering, and took Bim by the upper arm. “Come along,” he said, a warning bite to his tone.

Bim marched along with him through a set of doors, into a grimy kitchen. He puffed his chest a little, curiosity overcoming fear. “What is _this_?”

“You’ll have plenty of time to ask questions,” Dark said, pushing him down into a chair. “For now…” he spun another chair to face Bim and sat, leering at him across a narrow kitchen table. “…you need to answer _mine_.”  


“I’ve been seeing you everywhere,” Bim started, accusatory. “And you have _my face_. Who– what– are you?”

Dark chuckled, almost sinister, low shadows playing across his face. “Technically speaking,” he said, fangs glinting, “you have _my_  face.”

Bim’s breath caught in his throat, along with the feeling that he was suddenly, irrevocably, in too deep. “What _is_ this?” he asked again, voice hushed. 

A deep breath. “You’re a figment,” Dark said, sitting back, folding his arms. “A reflection of one of our creators’ characters, brought to life by the belief of his fans.” The words had a practiced, measured sort of tone to them, as if he’d said it before. 

Bim squinted. “No,” he managed. “I’m _Bim Trimmer_ , not a– a– a fiction, or whatever.”

“A figment,” Dark said, raising an eyebrow. He pressed a hand to his chest. “I am, too, most unfortunately.”  


“ _You_ are?”  


“I am Darkiplier,” he said, leaning forward, looking Bim full in the face. In the corner of Bim’s eye, he could see tendrils of smoke starting to clutch at the air around him– but somehow, he couldn’t look away.   


The wind picked up, catching his hair, but Dark’s glittering eyes were inches from his. “I am the embodiment of everyone’s worst fears, the monster under your bed, teeth ground sharp and eyes glowing red–”

“Dark!” A snap, and the lights in the kitchen flickered back to life. Bim hadn’t even noticed they were off, but now he threw himself backward, panic welling in his throat. The smoke in the room, a deep gray, unwound itself bitterly from Bim’s shoulders.   


In the doorway stood _another_  version of himself, a red and white pinstriped coat around his shoulders. Candy cane, fitting for the season. He–it– walked into the kitchen, twirling his bright-pink mustache. “Dark,” he scolded, and Bim noticed the way he drew out the words, “are you trying to _scare_  him?”

Dark practically pouted, kicking his chair away from the table. “I was just having some fun,” he snapped, the curling smoke coming to a rest over his shoulders. “Besides, it’s–”

“Necessary?” The other figment scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re messier than I am, Darkipoo.”  


“ _Darkipoo_?!” Bim repeated, incredulous.   


Dark’s back stiffened. “I suppose _you_  can explain, then, Will,” he said, stalking out of the room with a wave of smoke. 

“Um…” Bim fidgeted a little, looking at him. “Will, was it? I’d better go…”  


A dark shadow crossed Will’s face. “Wilford Warfstache,” he corrected, bowing. “Call me Wilford, if you don’t mind. And,” he grinned, showing all of his teeth, “If you don’t mind, you’ll be staying with us for a while.”

“What?” Bim’s mind went through a thousand excuses, but really, he’d only come to consciousness a few days ago. The cold, windswept junkyard that he called home wouldn’t miss him, he figured.   


“Seeing as all of us have the same face,” Wilford said, pulling him to his feet with a wink, “we can’t exactly go gallivanting around town, now, can we?”  


“I suppose not, but–”  


“Excellent! Well, let me give you the grand tour!” Wilford pulled at his arm, steering him out of the kitchen after Dark.   


Bim followed only reluctantly, looking around. The house was unattractive at best, but Wilford seemed to give the walls a pink glow as he passed. _And_  it was warm. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all. 

“This is the Doc’s room,” Wilford said, pointing to a plain, closed door. “If you listen close, you can hear him snoring. If he’s not sleeping, he’s at the clinic, and I suggest you don’t disturb him. Never takes a break, that man.” Wilford giggled as if he’d told a great joke, and moved on, leaving Bim confused. 

“This is Dark’s,” Wilford gestured to a door with several locks on it. “He’s very nice, as you can see. Feel free to bother him for, well, anything.” A wink, and Bim stared at the wisps of smoke snaking under the door as Wilford pulled him along.  


“Mine, of course!” Wilford rapped on a door with a crudely-made star affixed to it, the initials W.W. painted on in glitter. From inside came the shuffling of paper, and Wilford giggled again. “Don’t mind that, it’s only Walter.”  


“Who’s Walter–?” Bim started to ask.  


From behind Dark’s locked door came a muffled shout. “Walter isn’t real, Wilford!”

“Yes he is!” Wilford shouted back, and Bim covered his ears. “He’s my brother! Don’t mind all that,” Wilford said, smiling almost kindly down at Bim. “This last one is yours.” Wilford swung open the last door, a small, tidy room inside. “Dark figured we might have another one joining us soon,” he said, straightening his jacket uncomfortably as Bim stepped inside. 

It was a room, with four walls and a ceiling, and even a proper bed. Bim turned to Wilford, giddy and warm for the first time in his life. “Thank you,” he said, hushed.

Wilford went red under his mustache. “Right,” he said, gruff. “You make yourself at home, then.” He shuffled out, shutting the door gently, and Bim had to restrain himself from jumping up and down with joy right then and there. A house, a room, all to himself, a bunch of people– well, figments– to remind him that he wasn’t alone in the world. A home. It was almost Christmas and the universe hadn’t abandoned him, after all. 

Well, not yet.

* * *

Bim had been at the house three days by the time it happened. He was cooking breakfast, trying to put some food into the Doctor before his first shift, when the pan grew heavy in his hand. Bim yelped, watching the cast iron phase right through his fingers. 

It only took one shout for someone to come running. “Doc!”

Dr. Iplier skidded into the kitchen, coat half on. “Trimmer?” They’d only really seen each other twice, but dealing with both Wilford and Dark had forged a quick friendship. He hurried up to Bim, pulling him away from the spattered egg. “Did you burn yourself?”

Bim held up his hands, fingers shaking. The tips of his nails were already gone and he could see the Doctor’s stricken face through his palms. “Wh–what’s–”

“You’re fading.”  


* * *

In a moment, Dr. Iplier had Bim sit down, reassuring him that it would be fine, cautioning him to stay put. He hurried out of the room to find Wilford and Dark at each other’s throats in the living room. 

“We are _not_  putting that tree up.”  


“It’s almost _Christmas_ , Darkipoo!”  


“It’ll attract attention, we don’t celebrate Christmas, and _stop calling me that_.”

“Dark, Will,” Dr. Iplier interrupted them, panting. The two of them looked at him, surprised at the interruption. Wilford dropped the string of lights he was holding. “It’s Bim.”

* * *

By the time the three of them had rushed to the kitchen, the front door had already opened and subsequently been slammed shut. 

Dark tapped his nails on the table, gritting his teeth. “He’s gone.”

“No shit, Dark.”  


“Shut up.” Dark furrowed his brow, thinking. “We have to go get him.”  


“No shit, Dark.”  


“Shut _up_.”   


“He’s probably trying to get to the junkyard,” Dr. Iplier butted in, ignoring the death stares that Wilford and Dark were giving each other. “We can find him if we run.”  


“If people see us–” Dark started to warn, eyeing the morning glow outside, but Dr. Iplier glared at him.   


“This is Bim you’re talking about, Dark,” the Doctor hissed. “Like it or not, the kid is one of us now, and you’d better believe that I’ll do my damnedest to save him.”  


Wilford, visibly impressed, drew his gun. “Let’s go, then!”

“Put that _away_ , Will.”  


* * *

The three of them rushed outside. 

“The junkyard is that way,” Dr. Iplier said, pointing. “Let’s split up, and if we don’t find him within the half-hour, we’ll come back.” Already, he could feel the morning cold biting into his skin. Bim, still in pajamas, wouldn’t have a chance.   


Wilford and Dark both nodded before disappearing in whirls of their respective-colored smoke. Dr. Iplier scowled, muttering to himself, and set off on foot.

He hadn’t yet gotten a block away from the house when a flare of pink smoke manifested in front of him, swirling before fading into nothingness. Wilford. He turned, the air leaving his lungs, and set off for home at a sprint. 

* * *

Dark and Wilford got there before him, of course. Dr. Iplier burst into the foyer, wheezing, hearing their voices from the living room. 

“Doc?” Wilford called, his voice low, and Dr. Iplier knew that it was already too late.   


As he walked into the room, pushing aside boxes, Dark met him with a hand on his shoulder. A hard press, fingers turning white, a muted conversation. 

Dr. Iplier knelt down, searching Wilford’s dimly lit face for answers. Wilford shook his head, jaw set.

Bim, pale as a ghost, pale as December snow, lay shuddering against the carpet. As Dr. Iplier reached for his hand, Bim clutched at him. His fingers passed through the Doctor’s outstretched hand. 

After a moment, Bim took a breath. “I’m sorry I ran out,” he said, voice shaking. “I was–”

“Scared,” Wilford finished, patting what was left of Bim’s arm. Dr. Iplier looked up in surprise, the depth of emotion in Wilford’s voice the sound of someone who’d been through this before.   


Behind them, Dark shook his head, eyes hard as flint.

Bim took another rattling breath, his eyes seeming sunken in his face. A part of him was screaming, knowing he was dying. He’d  _had_  it. He’d had it all. A warm house, a handful of people like him, a place to belong. And now, it was slipping away, water in cupped palms. 

“Why?” Bim said, grasping at the Doctor’s coat with invisible fingers. “I was… fine.”  


Dr. Iplier shook his head. He’d never seen it up close before, not like this. Wilford made as if to speak, but stopped himself, looking away. 

Dark scoffed, but when he spoke, his voice was almost gentle in the growing light. “You were alive because people believed in you,” he said, stepping forward to look Bim in the eye. “Because they saw you, and what you could do. But now–” he gestured at Bim, at his limbs fading under Wilford’s reassuring hand, “–they’ve abandoned you.”

_You were alive._

_They’ve abandoned you._

A last, passing breath, and all that was left was the warmth of the morning sun seeping into the threadbare carpet.


End file.
